Is this an MSR?
by Fooberman
Summary: I mean, when I started writing ff's, I swore I'd never write an MSR. Then I wrote one, swearing that I'd never write another. Did I just break another promise? Oh well. I couldn't sleep, so I wrote this.


If you think that I am in any way connected with the people who brought you the X-Files. . . Well, I'm flattered. Even at its worst, the show was far better written than the stuff that I throw together. Chris Carter, at his worst, always had everyone reasonably close to being in character. I, at my best, do not.   
  
I have no connection to the show. I'm not making money off of this. Beautiful women having dinner with me because they love my writing. . . yeah, not happening. I have no concrete motive for these crimes against the English language. I am, I suppose, an incorrigible linguistic criminal!  
  
Anyway, to the story:   
  
I haven't decided what I'll call it. I guess it's some sort of MSR (and to think, when I wrote the other MSR (before which I'd sworn I would never write an MSR) I swore I'd never write another). A friend of mine reads fan-fics but doesn't write them, saying that if (s)he did write one it would be another mediocre angst-filled, hurt-comfort thing, and that the world has enough of those. Well, this one's for you. It isn't hurt-comfort, but I think I've covered the other bases. If you are this person, feel free to write a scathing review and then send me a mocking e-mail. If you aren't that person. . . be content with the scathing review.  
  
Anyway, to the story:   
  
Fox Mulder sat in his seat on the airplane. It was something he had done a million times before. Out of the blue, he would discover that he needed to be 1000 miles away from where he was. A few hours later he'd be on a plane. A few hours after that he'd be in yet another hotel room. A few hours later he'd be eating yet another mediocre meal in another depressing restaurant. Of course, it had been a few years since he'd played that game. He had more hair back then. Fewer wrinkles, too. The FBI forgot him long before he left, but there were things that no amount of time would ever let him forget.  
  
He took out a pad of paper and a pen. He was finding himself thinking about his past more and more. At his age, there wasn't a future to look forward to. The present didn't hold much attraction, either. That leaves the past. It makes you a prisoner, maybe even a slave, but at least it feeds and houses you. Fox didn't know why he'd started writing these things down. Catharsis? The pretense of having something to do? The illusion that someone cared? Best not to think too much.  
  
He started to write:  
  
"Dana Scully:"  
  
Those twp words sat alone at the top of the page for several minutes. He found the name hard to write, as if he feared that the words would conjure up the presence. She accused him. No, that isn't right. She did no such thing. That would have been better. He ruined her life. He knew that. He took everything that she had that was of any use to him. He left her needs unmet while   
preventing anyone else from helping her. She didn't accuse him. She was too good a person to do that. That made the accusation worse.  
  
Fox felt the words come to him. He tried to write, but couldn't keep up. Before his pen could trace a single letter his mind had composed the whole letter. It was beautiful. It was perfect. He couldn't remember a word of it.   
  
He almost crumpled up the piece of paper and threw it away. Would that action have the same power as writing the name? If writing the name could conjure her, could bring her near, could throwing the paper away banish her forever? Would she finally be gone from his mind? Would he never again have to answer the unanswerable accusation?  
  
Fox wondered which was best: to have her wholly present or wholly absent. Perhaps the middle ground that he had learned to live with was best. His head cleared; the spell that the page had held him in was broken.  
  
He began to write again:

"I've thought a lot about you the last few days. Even before the call came, I mean. I know that we haven't really seen or heard from each other in a long time, not since you left the FBI. I didn't see it at the time, but it was the right thing. I was draining your life. I took your hopes and dreams and replaced them with mine. I'd have sacrificed you to my 'god' in a heartbeat. I did, I guess, a little bit every day. I've have cast you aside when I was done with you. I'd have left when you had nothing left of value to me.   
  
I suppose that rose-colored glasses only work when there is a little red in the picture already. They might hide flaws or inflate virtues, but they couldn't inflate virtues that weren't there and they couldn't hide flaws when there was nothing to hide them behind but other flaws. Finally, even you saw me for what I am. Looking back, I don't blame you. You couldn't save me, but I could drag you down with me.   
  
I even had the chance to do the only good thing I could do for you. If I'd loved you, I would have helped you get as far away from me as possible. I couldn't even do that. I made it as hard as I could. Still, you did what you had to do. I don't blame you. It was the right thing to do.  
  
I followed your life as best I could (I mean, short of stalking). I read the papers that you wrote. Granted, I'm not a doctor, so I didn't wholly understand them, but I gather that they were very well received. You got yourself a nice practice. I wondered if you would marry. Part of me hoped that you would come back and fix everything that was wrong in my life. Looking back, I think that perhaps the wounds I gave you were just too deep to ever heal. Maybe I could have healed them. Of course, if I was a good enough person to fix all of the problems that I caused I wouldn't have caused them in the first place.  
  
I feel like, maybe, there comes a time when you give up on healing the wound and you simply amputate. You reached that point with me. I was the useless arm that would have slowly killed you. You cut me out of your life and went on as best you could. I'd have re-attached myself if you'd have let me. I'd have killed you, all the while claiming to love you.  
  
Maybe 'I'm sorry' is what I want to say. Not 'I'm sorry for this and that', but just 'I'm sorry'. I can't make things right; its been too late for that for a long time. That's all. I'm not a scapegoat; it really is my fault.  
  
Fox Mulder"  
  
The whole thing fit on one page. He read it and was not impressed. In terms of style, it was worse that the dozen or so letters he'd sent to Scully after she left the FBI. It even managed to be worse than the hundreds of letters he'd written her and never sent. In terms of content, though, he felt this to be better. If nothing else, he meant these words. Of course, he recalled that when he'd written those letters he'd meant them. Sincerity is not necessarily indicative of accuracy. . .   
  
He looked over the letter again and saw several wet spots. He had not realized that he was crying. He heard a sound. It was the 'fasten seat-belt' signal as the plane was on its final approach. He had not been aware of the passage of time; he had lost an hour. He had not realized how focused he had been on the letter (in his younger days he'd have offered another explanation). He folded the letter and placed it in his pocket before re-fastening his seatbelt and   
trying to get comfortable.   
  
As you know, it isn't a news story when a plane lands safely. This landing wasn't a news story. The trip was intended to be a short one, so he only had carry-on luggage. He got out of the airport quickly, took a taxi to his hotel, and unpacked and rested. It was 3 PM when he reached the hotel and 4:30 when he left.   
  
It was only a short walk to his destination. He and Skinner (who didn't have any less hair than he'd had back in the day!) met out front. They walked inside and sat down. The couple of times Fox looked over at Skinner he seemed to be very focused on what was going on. Fox couldn't relax and he couldn't pay attention. At some point he had taken the letter out of his pocket. He   
  
realized that he'd been reading it for several minutes and had read it through several times. He saw the places where his tears had found the paper earlier. Those were now dry, but they had also been replaced. He folded the letter back up but didn't put it in his pocket.   
  
When the rest of the room started to get up and leave Fox also stood up. He walked to the front. Scully looked like she was sleeping peacefully (overdressed, perhaps, but otherwise like she was sleeping peacefully). He placed his letter next to her head. As he walked away he heard the casket being closed.  
  
Scully's family and her friends (who had all heard stories of Fox) gave him obligatory offers to come to dinner, but he knew that they were only being polite. They blamed him (rightly, he knew) for a great many things, and they didn't want him around.  
  
He went back to his hotel. He would stay the night and then fly home in the morning.

He slept well that night for the first time in as long as he could remember.   
  
Scully had haunted him for so very long for stealing everything but her life. Now, at the cost of her life, she had given him freedom.

The End

Boring, banal, not worth reading?  
This, and more, am I conceding!  
It's been said. No doubt its true:  
"If that's your best, your best won't do!"  
  
Scathing words: I've heard before.  
You, I'm sure, can give me more.  
The time you wasted with this hack  
is time, you know, you won't get back.  
  
So waste a little more on me  
(enjoy the sick depravity!).  
Write a cold and harsh review,  
or say "it's good" (THAT would be new!)


End file.
